


High on Life

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [39]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos hurts himself while gardening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



“JESUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER DAMN SHIT FUCK OW!”

Athos takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He feels a little better after letting that out, but his hand still hurts like hell, and the string of expletives did nothing to stop the bleeding either.

Stupid garden shovel; it should come with a warning label.

His blood is warm on his skin; his hand pulsating in tandem with his heartbeat, and Athos is starting to feel a little light-headed. He should probably go inside - tell Aramis. Get help.

So he makes his way back into the building, down the stairs and into their apartment, clenching his teeth against the pain.

“Aramis?”

He vaguely remembers leaving a napping Aramis on the couch after breakfast, regaining his strength after a very adventurous night with Porthos, who went out to take the kids to the museum.

Athos heard them again last night, which made him feel very nice, if not at all inclined to join them. Which is something he probably shouldn’t think about now, because it will only make his heartrate speed up, and thus the pace at which is blood is pumping out of his body.

It’s dripping onto the floor as it is.

There’s no sign of Aramis in the living room now, and Athos takes a deep breath to keep a lid on his rising nausea.

GOD it _hurts_.

“Aramis?!”

The bathroom door opens at his rather panicked shout, and there he is, hair wet, mouth pulled into a smile - until he sees the blood.

“Athos, oh my God, what happened?”

He advances on Athos with the speed of worry, gasps when he sees the deep cut in Athos’ skin and pulls him with him to the bathroom in a flutter of determination and fear.

He wraps a towel around Athos’ bleeding hand, his own fingers shaky but resolute, tells Athos to put pressure on the wound, and then he calls a cab.

Athos opens his mouth to argue and encounters a glare of such intensity that it makes him feel even more faint than he already did.

“You need stitches,” Aramis says, his voice very quiet and tight, and sits Athos down on the toilet lid, makes him drink a glass of water. “God, I wish Porthos was here.”

Athos drinks the water and closes his eyes, tries to ignore the sickening sensation of his pulse in his hand.

“I don’t know how that would have changed anything,” he says. “Unless you think he would have forbidden me to use that devil’s instrument of a garden shovel in the first place.”

“He would know what to do,” Aramis says, reaching out to stroke his fingers through Athos’ hair.

Athos blinks up at him, experiencing a moment of safety and calm despite everything. “You know what to do.”

Aramis opens his mouth to reply, and then the doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of their cab. They wrap Athos’ hand in another towel, grab a set of keys and their wallets off the wardrobe by the door, and take the elevator down into the lobby.

It’s enough to make Athos feel sick, and once in the car Aramis urges him closer, puts his arm around Athos and holds him, tries to shield him against the occasional bump of their ride.

He smells fresh and clean after his shower, and Athos turns his face into his hair, enjoys its wetness against his heated skin.

He can sense Aramis’ worry coming off of him in waves, can feel it in the way he’s touching him, in the way he doesn’t let go of him for a single second as he walks him from the cab and into the hospital.

The emergency room is almost empty when they arrive, and Athos has to sit down only for a brief moment before he gets taken care of.

Aramis follows him into the treatment room, watches as Athos’ wound gets cleaned, doesn’t even avert his eyes for the stitches.

The doctor gave Athos a very nice shot of pain medication before she started her work, and now he’s feeling pleasantly light, maybe even a little giggly. At least as long as he doesn’t watch her work.

Looking at Aramis is so much nicer anyway.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Athos discovers after five minutes of staring at him, can feel the smug grin pulling at his mouth. “It looks _good_ on you.”

The doctor snorts, finishes bandaging his hand, and proclaims Athos good to go.

“Bring him back in a week so we can pull the stitches. In the meantime you’ll have to keep the bandages dry, and go easy on that hand as much as possible. Understood?”

Athos watches Aramis nod, and laboriously gets to his feet. “He will take good care of me,” he proclaims, reaching out with his good hand to grab Aramis’ shirt. “He’s very lovely.”

“I see,” the doctor says, sounding far from impressed, and hands Aramis a slip of paper. “Go and get some more pain medication for him before you leave. Just in case he needs it.”

Aramis looks very red as he takes it. “Will do. Thank you, Doctor.”

He walks Athos to the pharmacy, gets his medication for him, and then steers him out of the hospital.

Athos is a little unsure on his feet and thus very intent on holding on to Aramis’ arm for security. Plus, it feels really nice. Aramis has very nice skin. Soft. Warm.

Aramis blushes when Athos tells him, and that looks lovely, too.

“You’re very pretty,” Athos says, leaning his head against Aramis’ shoulder while they wait for a cab to take them back home.

Aramis looks up at the sky for a long moment, exposing his neck for Athos’ consideration. So of course he brushes a kiss over Aramis’ pulse, and when that results in a shudder and a gasp, he licks over the sensitive skin, intend on making Aramis feel good.

“Athos, stop! People are staring,” Aramis hisses then, and Athos sighs, curls his arms around Aramis’ waist.

“So what?”

“You don’t like public displays of affection,” Aramis reminds him.

Athos thinks about that for a moment. What a silly idea.

“But it feels so nice,” he argues, pressing closer to Aramis. “You know, I heard you again last night. You and Porthos. What he did to you must have felt really good.”

That statement elicits a heart-felt curse from Aramis, and Athos frowns. “It didn’t feel good?”

“Jesus Christ what did she _give_ you,” Aramis mutters, and then his arms come up around Athos and hold him close, give him a really great hug.

Athos sighs. “I love you a lot, you know.”

At which point Aramis makes a noise like a choking otter and utters a fervent expression of relief when he sees that their cab has pulled up to the curb.


	2. Chapter 2

The apartment door closes with an audible click, and Aramis collapses against it, weak with relief that they’re no longer in public. His blood vessels will probably never be the same after the strain he put on them today.

Athos was _impossible_ during the ride home. Aramis shudders to guess what the cabbie thinks of them.

It wasn’t the cuddling. Aramis is fine with cuddling, always, even if he doesn’t believe that Athos would ever be this openly affectionate without the pain medication in his system.

But that’s not the point.

Because it wasn’t the cuddling.

It was the _babbling_. The narrating. The listing of which noises, precisely, filtered through the wall separating their rooms last night. How they made Athos feel. What he thinks Porthos must have done to Aramis to make him moan quite so loudly.

He was almost frighteningly accurate. Aramis should have known that Athos' quiet nature and sometimes even caustic appearance hid some very naughty depths. Jesus. One of these days Athos might just have to orchestrate another such encounter between Porthos and Aramis, because he clearly has the mind for it.

Only if he wants to, of course. Because imagining it and witnessing it are two very different things. Aramis is quite aware.

“I think I need to sit down,” Athos informs Aramis at that point, still hanging from his arm like an enamoured sloth after their trek up to the apartment. “I’m thirsty.”

“Sitting down, great idea,” Aramis says, pushing himself off the wall and marching Athos over to the couch. He deposits him very, very gently, and then goes to get him a glass of water.

When he returns Athos is looking at him out of wide, amazed eyes, a faint smile hovering at the corners at his mouth.

Aramis stops as if suddenly rooted to the ground. “What?”

He sounds a bit suspicious, even to his own ears.

“You are so very _pretty_ ,” Athos says, impossibly earnest. “I want to paint you.” He contemplates that for a moment, tilts his head to the left. “Or paint on you.”

How Aramis actually makes it to the couch after that he has no idea.

“Thank you,” he gets out, handing over the glass, and then promptly has to help Athos get a proper grip on it.

“You’re welcome,” Athos replies, needlessly fervent.

Aramis is finding it more and more difficult not to squeeze the life out of him out of sheer self defence. He can’t even tell Athos how very cute he is in his drugged state. It would only make matters awkward afterwards. More awkward.

Seeing Athos drunk was bad enough. This is something else entirely.

He watches Athos aim the water glass at his mouth, watches him drink without making a mess, and then hastily takes the glass from Athos when it looks like he intends to just drop it onto the couch now that he doesn’t need it anymore.

“Thank you,” Athos says, and if it was anyone else Aramis would call the smile he’s sporting dopey to the extreme.

“Always,” Aramis replies, helpless to hold back a smile of his own.

“I am so glad you are here today,” Athos informs him, moving closer to him on the couch. “No. Not today,” he corrects himself with a frown. “Always. I’m always glad you’re here.” He lifts his injured hand, frowns a little harder, and eventually uses the other one to clumsily cup Aramis’ cheek. “I would have been so very lonely without you.”

Aramis doesn’t know what to do with himself at that point. His heart might just not make it.

“You would have been fine with Porthos,” he mumbles, taking Athos’ hand into his and brushing a kiss to its palm. “You were already so good together without me.”

“No, we _needed_ you,” Athos insists, suddenly very close. “We still do. You’re _special_.”

Which is when Aramis pushes him on his back and moves on top, very careful of Athos’ injury.

“You should rest,” he hears himself say. “And I should probably figure out something for us to eat, yes?”

“But first kisses!” Athos demands, which is something so unbearably precious for him to say that Aramis can’t resist him for even one second longer.

So he gives in, leans down ever so slowly - slow enough to watch Athos close his eyes and part his lips in anticipation, to see him become soft and eager with the prospect of being kissed.

Aramis brushes his lips to Athos’, so gently, doesn’t want to be greedy, doesn’t want to take advantage of Athos when he is this vulnerable - so very defenseless. And then Athos makes a _noise_ , lets out a happy little sigh and puts his good hand to Aramis’ nape, strokes his thumb over the sensitive skin.

They both moan when Aramis dips his tongue between the seam of Athos’ lips.

It’s almost as if Aramis was drugged as well, as if the kiss was all it took for him to succumb to the same state of blissful intoxication that has lowered Athos’ inhibitions.

He forgets that he wanted to fix them something to eat, forgets that Athos isn’t precisely in his right mind. He gets to kiss Athos so very seldom, at least like this, and that makes it special, makes it something to be savoured, to be cherished. He could never get enough of this.

Athos is warm and eager beneath him, his hand a welcome weight on Aramis’ neck, keeping him close. He’s lying perfectly still, seems to be focussed on their kiss and their kiss alone.

It feels amazing.

It reminds Aramis of his first kiss, although neither of them is quite as clumsy as he was back then. But Aramis still felt safe with his partners then, as safe as he feels with Athos now. Trusting. Utterly relaxed.

When he eventually pulls back it’s not out of a sudden sense of discomfort, not because he fears to be interrupted by anyone, or out of fear that he might have overstepped some line.

He just wants to look at Athos.

And when he lifts his head and opens his eyes Athos is looking back at him, that dopey smile once more firmly in place. “You taste really good.”

“So do you,” Aramis whispers back, and leans in to nuzzle Athos’ cheek. “Can I get up to make food now?”

“Yes,” Athos says, turning his head to brush another kiss to Aramis’ lips. “Sandwiches?”

“I should manage that,” Aramis grins, almost dizzy with how being so close to Athos makes him feel. “Extra cheese?”

“Always,” Athos murmurs. Gives him yet another kiss. “Aramis?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Aramis says, meaning it so much more than Athos will ever know.


	3. Chapter 3

“Eh, guys? Can you tell me what happened to the hallway carpet?”

Porthos chucks his keys onto the wardrobe next to the door, toes out of his sneakers, and sighs. He had a very long, very exhausting day at the museum with the kids, and the last thing he needed upon stepping out of the elevator was the ghastly and unexpected sight of blood on the cream-coloured floor.

The sight of Athos, flushed and happy and snuggling with a couch cushion is something else entirely.

“Good evening, love,” Porthos greets him, making a bee-line for the couch. “Had some wine up on the roof again, did you?”

“No, I cut myself,” Athos says, brandishing a bandaged hand just to reach up and grip the collar of Porthos’ t-shirt with the other. “Aramis says the pain medication is making me _whoopee_.”

He manages to make the word sound like a proper diagnoses, and Porthos promptly collapses onto the couch next to him - for one because Athos’ grip would probably tear the shirt if he tried to resist, and then he rather wants to get a better look at that bandage.

“What did you do?” he asks, stroking his fingertips over Athos’ palm while Athos keeps perfectly still for him, the gauze almost the same colour as his pale skin.

Athos sighs. “Garden shovel.”

Porthos winces and lets go of his hand. “Aw shit.”

Athos nods. “Aramis took me to the hospital. He was very decisive and caring. I liked that a lot.”

Porthos blinks, takes a closer look at Athos’ slightly dilated pupils, and grins. “You’re still high, aren’t you?”

“The pain medication the doctor gave me is very good,” Athos says, nose in the air. Then he grabs Porthos’ arm, rubs his cheek against his biceps. “I’m very glad you’re home. I was lonely.”

“Oh you poor darling,” Porthos replies, barely able to contain his glee. “Did Aramis leave you all alone in your helpless state?”

“He went to buy special cat food,” Athos explains, eyes closed and completely blissed out. “Miss Daisy is starting to look emaciated.”

“Yeah, those little vampires are sucking her dry, aren’t they,” Porthos muses, raking his fingers through Athos’ hair. “I just don’t see how that’s Aramis’ problem. She’s not our cat, remember?”

“I asked him to go,” Athos sighs, pressing closer to Porthos’ body. He peeks one eye open and graces Porthos with an uncharacteristically sheepish look. “I don’t want her to get sick. Or the kittens,” he adds after a moment, suddenly sitting up straight. “I’m always worried that we’re not taking proper care of them.”

“We are taking proper care of them, love,” Porthos soothes him. “You more than anyone. I’m in daily expectation of Miss Durand askin’ us if we wanna keep them.”

As soon as Porthos has uttered the words, he knows he’s made a tactical mistake. As much as Athos tries to keep a lid on it, Porthos knows he’s secretly very much in love with their little guests. Otherwise he never would have slept in his own room so much lately. Even now he’s covered in cat hair.

He’s also high. So Athos perks up visibly in reaction to Porthos’ remark, eyes suddenly very round and eager. “Oh, Porthos - could we?”

He looks like a little boy. Those meds must be something indeed.

Porthos clears his throat. So far he’s kept away from the kittens as much as possible, because he just couldn’t bear letting them go otherwise. Still, he could never say no to Athos - not when he looks at him like this. “If Miss Durham asks? Sure. I like those little fur balls. They’re almost as cute as you.”

Athos smiles and stands up, and suddenly he’s in Porthos’ lap, with his arms around Porthos’ neck, hugging him with affectionate insistence. “You are very sweet. I’m so lucky to have you.”

“Darlin’, it’s your apartment,” Porthos reminds him while his arms come up automatically to return the hug. “You can get as many pets as you wanna.”

“No, it’s _our_ apartment,” Athos insists. “Aramis’ too. I have to ask him as well when he gets back.”

“But Miss Durham hasn’t offered us the kittens yet,” Porthos says, feeling a little bad for spoiling Athos’ excitement.

He can practically feel Athos deflate in his arms. “Oh.”

Damn it all to hell, Porthos might just have to go and _ask_ Miss Durham for the damn kittens. He can only hope that they aren’t promised to anyone yet.

“So,” he says slowly, dragging the word out into three syllables. “How about I give you a bath and then cook something nice for us for dinner, yeah? I wanna go all out, maybe make a pie for dessert?”

“That sounds great,” Athos says, pulling back from their hug to look into Porthos’ eyes. “But I don’t want to take a bath. I want you to shower with me.”

 

Porthos is feeling slightly overwhelmed. That is not very often the case, at least not when it comes to Athos. Because he knows Athos. He’s always known Athos; and about ninety percent of the time, on any given day, he knows what Athos will say, or do, or even which facial muscles he will employ to convey his emotions.

Showering with Athos while he’s high on pain medication falls squarely into those ten percent of uncharted territory, where absolutely anything might happen.

Maybe Porthos should have said no; but then again there’s no chance in hell he would have. This is far too brilliant.

“There,” he says, wrapping another layer of tape around Athos’ wrist, securing the plastic bag against his skin. “All ready. Those bandages of yours should stay perfectly dry.”

Athos smiles and thanks him and then waits for Porthos to take off his clothes. To take off both of their clothes. It’s a little unnerving.

Still Porthos manages to help Athos out of his t-shirt without doing either of them any harm. He even succeeds at ridding him of both jeans and shorts without experiencing any kind of problem.

But then Athos is naked, and Porthos is not, and Athos is looking at him in a way that suggests he’s getting impatient about that fact.

“What, can’t wait to see my butt?” he jokes, because at this point he kind of has to.

Athos nods. “I want to see if Aramis scratched you.”

Porthos very nearly strangles himself with his own t-shirt.

“Come again?” he says once he’s freed himself and Athos is staring very intently at his chest.

“You made a noise last night that indicated that Aramis was causing you some sort of pleasurable pain.”

“Well, he didn’t scratch me,” Porthos says, stunned. “He rarely does. He knows I’m not into pain.”

Athos nods, entirely unperturbed, and Porthos shoves down his jeans and shorts in one go. “Come on then. You can wash my back. Make absolutely sure I’m unharmed.”

“Thank you,” Athos replies seriously.

Porthos takes a deep breath. This will require an outstanding amount of self control it seems.


	4. Chapter 4

Athos is rather happy. He’s also very aware of his own smile, which is unusual, but not unpleasant.

The shower cabin is big enough for three, and thus certainly big enough for the two of them, and Athos wonders why they’ve never done this before.

Washing Porthos’ back with his left hand isn’t the easiest feat he’s ever performed, but that doesn’t make it any less pleasurable. Because Porthos has a very nice back. Well defined. Sculpted. His skin is smooth and warm, and touching it like this feels good, with the water and the body wash and everything.

Athos watches the muscles shift under his touch, observes the path of a soap bubble downwards and to where it vanishes between Porthos’ cheeks, and absent-mindedly trails it with his fingertip.

In front of him, Porthos takes a very deep breath. “Love, what are you doing?”

“Admiring your ass,” Athos replies happily. “I never realized how magnificent it is.”

Porthos laughs, sounding surprised and pleased, and Athos smiles a little wider, leans his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder, shielding himself from the spray of the water by doing so. “What, it’s true.”

“You’re full of unexpected truths today, aren’t you?” Porthos says, and Athos’ smile morphs into a frown.

“What do you mean?”

“Well you’re not usually this outspoken, right? Never complimented me on my ass before, for example.”

He’s right, Athos realizes, vaguely horrified. He’s never told Porthos how attractive he is, how very appealing his physique. This simply cannot stand.

He gently pulls on Porthos’ shoulder to turn him around, gets a face full of water until Porthos blocks the spray again. Once Porthos is facing him, Athos moves his hand over his chest, wonderfully aware of Porthos’ heartbeat under his touch.

“You are gorgeous,” he tells him, voice solemn.

Porthos looks surprised for a moment, and then he takes Athos’ hand into his, gives it a gentle squeeze. “I wasn’t fishin’ for compliments, darlin’.”

“No, I know,” Athos says, squeezing him back. “I know you don’t need flattery, that your self-esteem doesn’t depend on others. But you are. Gorgeous, I mean. I like looking at you. I’ve always liked looking at you.”

He allows his gaze to roam over Porthos’ body as he speaks, frees his hand from Porthos’ hold and strokes his palm over Porthos’ belly. “I enjoy touching you. It is a very pleasant experience.”

“Jesus, love, you’re makin’ me blush,” Porthos says, and the marvellous thing is that he really is blushing; it’s spreading down his chest and lower, makes Athos want to chase it with his fingertips again.

Athos takes a deep breath and then he gives in, steps closer to Porthos and pushes him back so they’re both under the warm spray of the water. Then he trails his fingertips over Porthos’ torso. He abandons the blush soon enough, just wants to _touch_ , wants to be close to Porthos and explore all that warm, wet skin, wants to breathe him in and marvel at the fact that he is _his_.

Porthos lets him roam for a long while, steady and still under Athos’ touch, until he eventually catches Athos’ hand. “You’re about to give me a boner, love.”

Athos lifts his head to look up at him and they’re so very close that his eyes have trouble focussing, so close that he can feel Porthos’ breath on his face. “You don’t want that?”

Porthos clears his throat. “Not while you’re hurt, no.”

“You mean while I’m high,” Athos says with a little smile.

“That too, yes, jesus.”

Porthos takes a step back, and Athos immediately feels the loss of it, wants to be closer again.

“How about we finish this up, and then I make us somethin’ to eat, eh? I really don’t wanna take advantage of you.”

Porthos sounds apologetic and a little flustered, and Athos tilts his head, doesn’t really understand what’s the issue. “But I’m your boyfriend.”

“Yes, and you’re a very lovely boyfriend at that,” Porthos replies, taking hold of the shower head to rinse them both off. “But new experiences are for when we’re both sober and fully aware of what we’re doin’.”

His words make sense, in a way, and Athos sighs, can’t hold back a pout. “But I want to touch you.”

Porthos turns off the water. “Yeah, I know.”

“So why won’t you let me?”

“Because I’m _really_ feelin’ it,” Porthos says, his voice a little scratchy. “And I’m afraid I’ll go too far with you if we don’t take it easy.”

“Oh,” Athos says, and then Porthos has stepped out of the shower and is wrapping him in a towel. “I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry,” Porthos says, smiling reassuringly while he pries the tape off Athos’ wrist and frees his bandaged hand from the plastic bag. “It felt very good.”

He means it, Athos knows that. He’s still feeling a little crestfallen. All he wanted to do was touch him. Surely they should be able to do that?

He watches Porthos wrap a second towel around himself, and then he allows himself to be led out of the bathroom and into his own, where Porthos helps him dress among squeaking kittens, exclaiming at the amount of cat hair covering every flat surface.

“You need to get them used to the vacuum cleaner, Athos, it looks like a wig factory exploded in here.”

“Yes, I know,” Athos mumbles, scratching Miss Daisy behind one ear. “I didn’t want to scare them.”

His mood is rather low suddenly.

Porthos sighs. “Alright. Come on.”

He takes Athos’ hand and leads him to his own bedroom, where he drops the towel and pulls Athos into a rather sudden embrace. Athos lets out a gasp and then he stills, closes his eyes and presses into Porthos with his whole body. “I thought you didn’t want to.”

“Helps that you’re dressed,” Porthos whispers, holding him a little too tight for a moment. “Would help even more if I knew I was doin’ the right thing here.”

“It’s pain medication, Porthos, not a mind-altering aphrodisiac,” Athos drawls, brushing a kiss to Porthos’ neck. “You don’t need to treat me quite so carefully.”

“Yes, I do,” Porthos says, obstinate as always. “I’m makin’ an effort here, and don’t you dare tell me you’re not worth it. You deserve my consideration just as much as Aramis does.”

Athos doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he drops his hand onto Porthos’ ass, gives it an experimental squeeze. He really likes how it feels under his hand. Squishy yet firm.

“Tell me I’m at least allowed to put on shorts,” Porthos groans, keeping himself painfully still. “Otherwise I can’t guarantee for anythin’ tonight - especially with Aramis in the mix.”


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis is in the kitchen when Athos and Porthos come upon him. He’s already fed Miss Daisy, who was very appreciative of the Mama Cat Food he’d bought for her; he’s also made a valiant effort not to barge into the bathroom when he heard the shower running - has tried to not even think about what might be going on in there.

Tried and failed.

He will never _ever_ forget how Athos behaved today. It’s no wonder Porthos carried him off to douse him with cold water as soon as he came home.

Now that they’ve finally come out to join him Athos is looking somewhat subdued, while Porthos is wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. This is completely unacceptable.

Aramis is going to go _mental_.

“What’s going on?” he asks before he can stop himself. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I’m not allowed to,” Porthos says, looking at Athos from the corner of his eye, who has the affrontery to _smile and nod_. “How was your shopping trip?”

Aramis lifts his chin for a kiss before he replies, wishes Porthos was wearing a shirt he could cling to. “Uneventful. But Miss Daisy liked the food I bought her.”

“Thank you so much for going out to get it!” Athos says, stepping up to Aramis and giving him an enthusiastic hug and a kiss to the cheek. “Porthos says we can keep the kittens if Miss Durham allows it!”

Aramis wants to squeeze him silly. “That’s awesome! I was dreading the day we had to let go of them.”

Next to him he hears Porthos sigh, and then he steps away from them, puts on his apron. “I’m gonna cook.”

Aramis doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. “Dressed like that?”

It is a novelty-apron, telling Aramis to Keep Calm and let him cook. He’s not sure he can do that.

“Yes,” Athos answers instead of Porthos. “I like it.”

This is beginning to feel a little bit like the Twighlight Zone.

Aramis stares, turns his head, blinks at Porthos, encounters a helpless shrug and takes Athos’ uninjured hand, clinging to his sanity with all of his might. “Did you drink enough?”

“Not really,” Athos says, and allows Aramis to pull him away and over to the sofa, where he recounts his shower adventure with Porthos while rehydrating, pouting ever so slightly all the while.

From the corner of his eye Aramis can see Porthos at the stove, hacking at carrots with his biggest knife, and carefully averts his gaze. “We’re lucky to have him.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees immediately. “So lucky. Like that stupid song.”

The statement leaves Aramis somewhat confused, and makes Porthos laugh. Aramis turns his head and lifts an inquiring eyebrow. “What is he talking about?”

“He’s talkin’ about the time Flea followed us everywhere with a boom-box, playin’ that damn song from the Pudding Guy and the Alliterating Woman.”

Aramis stares at him; it takes a moment until his words start to make a smidgen of sense. “Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat?”

Porthos nods. “Yeah. Them. Horrible.”

Aramis stares a little harder. “Pudding Guy?”

Athos huffs. “Matzenbrei.”

Aramis decides to let the matter drop. Since Flea was involved, that’s probably a good idea.

He clears his throat. “What I _meant_ to say was that we really have no reason for complaint having Porthos for a boyfriend. I mean look at him - he’s cooking almost _naked_.”

The apron is actually making matters worse as far as Aramis is concerned. Apparently he can turn _anything_ into a kink. This is a problem. A big one. Pun not intended. Oh God.

He clears his throat yet again. “And you know he’ll be all over you if you decide to, ah, pursue matters once you’re sober, Athos.”

“With whipped cream,” Porthos comments from the stove.

Athos flushes a pleasing shade of pink. “I know.”

“There you go,” Aramis says, rather flushed himself. He finds it difficult to believe that he actually manages to be the voice of reason in this. It’s a completely new experience. None of his friends will believe it, least of all Constance. He finds it difficult to believe it himself.

“I’m glad you didn’t scratch him,” Athos says then, apropos of nothing. “He doesn’t like that.”

“I know,” Aramis replies, voice faint. “That’s why I don’t do it.”

Athos nods and smiles; Aramis squirms. This is making him horny. All of it. Athos has clearly no idea what he’s doing, but that doesn’t precisely help.

His innocent cuteness is driving Aramis up the wall. He thought going out to do something as mundane as buying cat food would help, but it didn’t. He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive until bed-time.

He wouldn’t mind a romp on the kitchen table as it is. Wouldn’t mind it at all.

 

Two hours later Aramis is ready to revise that statement, but only to include lasagna leftovers in the kitchen table romp. He’s so ready to be ravished it’s not funny anymore.

Porthos has taken off his apron for the meal, and having him at the table in nothing but his briefs was a test of Aramis’ self control he never wants to undergo ever again.

It’s not the fact that Porthos is wearing hardly any clothes, although that in itself is testing enough. It’s that lack of attire in combination with Athos’ obvious and very outspoken approval.

How Porthos hasn’t lunged across the table and devoured Athos underneath it is a mystery to Aramis.

Porthos is a true marvel of self-restraint. But then he always has been.

Aramis sighs. He’s retreated to the couch and is trying to hide his growing arousal behind one of the fancy cushions Athos bought him once upon a time. Highly inappropriate but necessary nevertheless.

Athos would probably want to touch it if he saw. He’s like a toddler. A naughty, groping toddler.

Aramis shudders. This is so not how he thought his day was going to go. He’d planned to rest after his bedroom adventure with Porthos yesterday. Rest and daydream and maybe snuggle with Athos on the couch a bit. Innocently. Comfortably.

Aramis is many things at the moment, but comfortable isn’t one of them.

Three seconds later Athos is on the couch with him, calling for Porthos to join them.

“Gimme a second, love,” Porthos says putting his peach cream pie into the oven.

He’s wearing his apron again. Aramis very decidedly does not look.

“Are you alright?” Athos asks him, putting his good hand under Aramis’ chin. His gentle touch only adds to Aramis’ need. “You’re looking … constipated.”

Porthos laughs and Aramis pouts, and Athos glares towards the kitchen area. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I know,” Porthos giggles, wiping his floury hands on his apron before he takes it off and hangs it on its hook. “I also know the reason for his _constipation_.”

He walks over to them in his horrible briefs, sits down on the couch and pulls Aramis into his lap without further ado. “Wanna give Athos a show, kitten?”

Aramis gasps, and so does Athos, while Porthos leans forward to brush a kiss to Aramis’ cheek. “Because if I don’t let off some steam soon, I might just blow my lid.”


	6. Chapter 6

If he’s being quite honest Porthos might just be a little bit desperate. Walking around more or less naked for so long has gotten to him more than he ever thought it could. He _likes_ to show off after all. Does it as often as possible. Works out regularly for maximum effect.

Today is different. Athos is different. Far too honest - if one can even call it that.

Even now he’s the first to applaud Porthos’ suggestion - moves closer to him on the couch and strokes his hand over Porthos’ chest and down to his belly.

“I would like that,” he says, as if that was _normal_ , as if such a statement wasn’t usually accompanied by drawling, or blushing, or at least some serious thought.

It’s that lack of restraint that made Porthos pull away earlier, that lack of _Athos_. It wasn’t just the need to protect him that tied Porthos’ hands, it was this strange imbalance between seeing and feeling Athos, but not hearing him.

Then again it’s without question Athos’ hand fondling him, pale and elegant and very sure of itself.

Porthos closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “What do you say, kitten? Are you in the mood for some lovin’?”

He feels Aramis squirm in his lap and opens his eyes, encounters a helpless plea for rescue.

Porthos feels his mouth pull into a smile. “He got to you too, eh?”

“So much,” is the fervent reply. “Porthos, he asked me earlier _if I enjoy myself more on all fours_ \- the cabby nearly drove us into a ditch!”

Athos makes a noise of curious innocence, while Porthos lets out a hoarse chuckle, a hot gust of air that feels as if it comes from where his heart is feeding the furnace inside of him. He isn’t even hard yet, but he knows that the lightest touch is going to do it, that the tight reign he usually keeps on his impulses will slip through his fingers like melting butter.

Normally he doesn’t like to ask Aramis for anything in the bedroom, prefers it by far to fulfil Aramis’ desires and get his kick from giving him pleasure. Now he fears that if they don’t take the edge off first his control is going to crumble and leave nothing but basic animal instinct behind.

“Kitten, can you do me a favour?” he asks, his voice rough as Athos’ fingertips stroke back and forth behind his navel. “Can you suck me off before we do anythin’ else? I don’t think I -”

And then Aramis is already off his lap and on his knees on the thick living room carpet, both hands flat on Porthos’ spread thighs.

Porthos is a bit stunned by this immediate response, and Aramis blushes, looks up at him through his lashes. “I wanted to do that here _for ages_.”

Porthos’ vision tints red for a moment and he blinks, takes a deep breath. “You sure you didn’t plan this together with Athos?”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Athos says at this point. “I really would like to watch him suck you off though,” he adds. “You’re so _big_.”

He’s staring down at Porthos’ hardening cock as he says it, fingertips still brushing back and forth under Porthos’ navel.

Porthos bites his lip to hold back a whimper and meets Aramis’ gaze, doesn’t have to say a single word.

Aramis pulls down his briefs without prompting, lips parting eagerly when Porthos’ cock rises to the occasion.

To his left Porthos can hear Athos take a hasty breath, and the sensation of it stirring the hair behind his ear excites him almost as much as the sight of Aramis leaning forward - almost as much as the sensation of Aramis exhaling above the tip of his cock.

If their roles were reversed Porthos would tease Aramis at this point, would lick the tip and pull back, fondle Aramis’ balls until he was begging for it.

Aramis rarely teases. He’s too eager himself. Too lost to arousal.

Accordingly Aramis doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause. He opens his mouth wide and goes down on Porthos, down and down until he has swallowed him to the base; and Porthos doesn’t know if he should curse, or if trying to speak at this point might prove unwise.

“Oh,” he hears Athos say next to him. “So _deep_.”

Porthos shudders, can’t prevent his cock giving a twitch in Aramis’ throat.

Aramis moans and stares up at him, tears in the corners of his eyes, and Porthos reaches out to him, buries his right hand in Aramis’ hair, strokes it clumsily when Aramis moves back up.

“You okay, kitten?” he asks, his voice wrecked as if he was the one sucking cock, and Aramis nods, as much as he can, and idly swirls his tongue around his shaft.

“You’re really hot,” he mumbles before going right back down, and Porthos groans, knows that he won’t last long with Aramis being this relentless and Athos pressing into him from the side, leaning forward ever so slightly for a better view.

“You like your show, love?” Porthos asks him, and when Athos turns his head to look at him his pupils are blown wide, with only a sliver of green around the black.

When he leans in to press his mouth to Porthos’, Porthos doesn’t pull away. He opens his lips for Athos and kisses him back, licks into his mouth and moans. Athos’ hand is warm on his belly, keeps caressing him while Athos allows him to take control over his mouth, his breathing laboured, clearly turned on.

As far as taking the edge off goes, Porthos might have chosen the wrong tools.

Aramis starts to suck him off in earnest, head bobbing up and down, tongue swirling messily, saliva dropping off his chin, and Porthos fights for self control, fights for focus and stamina; but then Athos’ hand brushes upwards to his chest, pinches his right nipple while he sucks on his tongue, and Porthos groans, can’t even warn Aramis about his impending orgasm.

 

“You liked that,” Athos whispers into his ear ten minutes later, when Aramis is once more in Porthos’ lap, and Porthos has two fingers up his ass. “When I pinched you. You really liked that.”

“Yeah,” Porthos admits. “I did.”

He doesn’t tell Athos that it wasn’t the pain that did it, but the fact that _Athos_ touched him this way, that Porthos has a weakness for Athos’ touch that has nothing to do with kink or sexual preferences.

It’s all about rarity.

Aramis is moaning, completely naked in his lap, and when he leans in for a kiss Athos gives it to him, doesn’t seem to mind the taste of Porthos’ come on Aramis’ tongue.

Porthos leans back and watches them kiss, tries to focus on opening Aramis up and not think about what Athos might have to say to this once he regains full control of his faculties.

Whatever happens, Porthos thinks it was mostly worth it. He’ll never be able to make peach cream pie again without thinking of this day though, that much is certain.

**Author's Note:**

> a great many thanks to the very lovely purveyor of this [plot bunny](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/post/144649032949/just-thinking-of-another-bunny-if-you-are-still)!


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